Long Proffered Poems
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For days now he had hungered.
His search took him along many an avenue,
where his pleas were so harshly ignored.
But his need was such he had to continue,
so to all that he met he implored.
Many turned him away with brusque impatience,
what had he to offer them they all sneered.
Still he searched with all true innocence,
of the way he was evidently feared.
Daringly he turned his gaze upon all,
all those who walked the same paths,
all those who he heard from over their wall,
where they tended their gardens with care,
ever hoping soon he might find that one,
that one person who would freely share.
His recent loss still burned in his heavy heart,
all the devotion he had given and received
had been beyond reproach from the very start.
She had been the one and now alone he grieved.
His thoughts turned to that day when he awoke,
to find his companion gone but yet still there...
No response came as usual to his gentle stroke,
still and cold, so very cold as he proffered care.
All that long day his hope lingered with them,
until night fell and hope slid away numbed,
tangibly wandering out into the dark and mean
moon shadows cast behind their wind rattled shed.
A sharp whistle seemed to bring him from his dream,
it turned his head and stopped him still in his tracks.
He shook his head twice hardly believing the scene,
then ran swiftly towards his mistress now back!
Joyous reunion after those last empty days
filled both as they then embraced so lovingly,
her hands no longer felt cold but her eyes,
her eyes did seem a little pale and misty.
The pair were soon jauntily walking back home
to their ramshackle old potting shed.
All the spiders would ask why did they roam,
neither would answer as they settled to bed.
Down the avenue none had noticed their sheer joy,
none had seen them walk by in such evident glee.
None had heard their footfalls or calls of good boy,
but minutes after one lad saw what didn't flee...
'Hey Mum' he called into the kitchen,
'Come and look at this old dog over here.'
'There's nowt you can do for it Marvin,
poor old thing - must have been a stray dear.'
Back in the shed Good Boy and Mistress rested,
peace was with them amidst peat and dead fern.
Neither ever pined or wept again in their bed,
the hunger was gone now, never more to return.
©Rhumour
June 12th 2009
I see so many wrapped up in rage,
it consumes them all despite their age,
anger not caused by crimes they’ve suffered,
but by ideas that some have proffered,
brought about by those malicious lies
that a person must ‘identify,’
then rant and cry as if there victims,
and some how absolved of any sin.
Brought about by scorning tradition,
and making choices supremely dumb,
not finding solace in family,
but believing they’ll ‘change history.’
The crux of it, of their angry fate,
is the need of humans to feel great,
we all feel it, but how it’s fulfilled
leads them to talking a bitter pill.
Rather then having kids of their own,
to take pride in when they are grown,
rather than build their abilities
and achieve greatness that all can see,
they instead proclaim that they’re ‘heroes,’
off fighting the power, don’t you know,
and when all the world seems ‘villainy’
it’s required that you be angry.
When something can make you feel that way
you’ll do anything to make it stay,
like a junkie seeking the first high…
the things you will do to feel alive…
Say man is woman, and women men,
take a whole sex and disparage them,
say one skin is fine, all others jerks,
pillory those folks who dare to work,
cling to ideas that killed millions,
wish your own culture to be undone,
ignore all the truths you plainly see,
to feel righteous from being angry.
This is what makes them feel good in life,
loosing that cuts worse than any knife,
they’ll proclaim you should lose all your speech,
then they’ll tell you what to think and preach,
what you should eat, and do for a job,
and dictate to you your thoughts on God,
convinced they’re elite, they’ve got it right,
that utopia is within sight,
making politics substitute faith,
so all not onboard ‘deserve’ their hate…
and their lies the great hypocrisy,
their anger is warmed up tyranny.
Their false righteousness won’t turn the page,
you can’t go backwards to a ‘better’ age,
leaving them stuck in an endless loop,
making them angry and lifelong dupes,
with little chance of finding some peace,
their addiction offers no release,
they’ll scream ‘anti-fascist,’ roam the street,
looking for random people to beat,
they’ll double down and will never find
that they are trapped in childish minds,
it must suck hard to be so PC,
forced to forever be so angry.
for Prithwin
first
left downstroke
start from the top
plane out
let the long anchor tip roof-line curve sharply upwards
at the stern down-end
pile it in stuffed in the centre
leave the bottom open
that’s where the studded boot rightly fits
Over billowing transmuted waters
the haze lifts now and then
winds amber green waft and skim
with the late light caught shimmering
no albatross circles the mast
guilt is pure guilt without wanton arrows
there are no signs of land
but the proffered hand
the wanderer knows no words of his own
Reach - disgorge with your nails
Walls that concuss entrails
Can he yet placate asylum
echo the cluck of a poaching North American coot
nestling amidst Eurasian breeding reeds
taut bunching yarrow rushes
an embattled haven
against majestic swan ships
sleek velvety rich drake
peacockish barnacle goose
come in early from the cold
Let the dards of Orion spell syllables of ease
through the congested smudge of yore
contorted fantizi ideograms
cursory calligraphic long dripping brush strokes
pale to pinyin
Simplified
the exile gasps for instant phonemic breath
under choppy waves of stuttering tongues
racy blades
extirpate langue crucify parole
mix meaning into heady synaesthesiac brew
loss of face is a loss of noodles
develop equals hair
Could René Char’s Zeit Geist
have diagnosed the myna’s Kâla-Purusha
Reach – disgorge with your nails
Walls that concuss entrails
Resources
1. This poem has to do with a Bengali translator’s first encounter with René Char at his residence The French poet questioned his translator on the meaning of “le dard d’Orion” in
his poem: “Jeu muet”. The translator interpreted the phrase as having to do with
astronomy and thus rendered it as “kâla Purusha” (Zeit Geist or literally as in
Hindu mythology: the Primal Being at the beginning of time). René Char then
picked a certain variety of the cactus flower in his garden and said that the
French “phrase” applied to that particular flower.
2. The imagery in the poem also relates to the simplification of classical Chinese
characters (fantizi) by the Peoples Republic of China in the early fifties and the
alphabetisation of Chinese characters, known as “pinyin” as opposed to the Wade and Yale systems. The simplified characters produced certain semantic anomalies.
©T. Wignesan, Paris – May 3, 2009
We were drinking in the Eagles Nest; a cozy little pub,
one Friday evening after work completed in the scrub.
Most of us are timber workers, who get paid on Friday night,
so we’re all cashed up and thirsty in a setting that’s just right.
There were six of us who formed a shout and mixed to socialize,
and as the beers were going down, glassy turned our eyes.
Tongues were loosening up a mite and too our rationale,
and hints were being thrown about by master card sharp Karl.
Karl’s the gambler we avoid he’d bet on two flies up a wall,
but when we’ve had a skin full and Karl begs a poker call,
fifty per cent will jump right in and claim themselves a seat,
and the rest are easily convinced, for grog does hide defeat.
So with Ron and John, plus Bill and Stan, I walk to Karl’s abode.
We’re all carrying two six packs that we surely will unload,
while we shuffle, deal and raise and show, or play a game of bluff,
to find out whom at poker holds the nerves of stronger stuff.
And as the night went deeper and the stubbies emptied out,
some were holding piles of money and one was now without.
Stan had squandered all his pay and now he looked a mite unstable,
but then to top his bad night off - Stan drops dead at the table.
At first we panicked seeing Stan but knew there’s nothing we could do,
and seeing that we’re full of booze we only had a short review.
It was suggested we should show respect now Stan has passed away.
We stood up for the next three hands and thanked Stan for his pay.
And when new dawn began to break, it was time to close the game,
Karl was quick to put his hand on Stan and then he did proclaim,
“One of youse walking home my friends must notify Stan’s wife.
Who will it be?” But no hand rose and Karl felt he’s in strife.
So it came down to drawing straws that Karl held in his hand.
When I plucked me piece of straw I plucked the one I never planned.
Karl stated I must be discreet, be gentle, and not to make things worse.
With me virtue for discretion at Stanley’s door I did converse.
Ums and Ahs were flowing freely ‘til at last me courage grew,
“Your husband Stan has lost his pay now he’s frightened to face you.”
She glared with eyes that proffered hate - “Tell the mongrel to drop dead!”
So I uttered as I turned away - “I’ll go and tell Stan what you said.”
She feels the urge to ask,
And in a different time she would have,
I guess it’s just another mask,
Removed by hands of time.
A child asks a mother in attempts to understand,
A fool asks a brother for the faintest hope of what he’d planned,
But what’s become of her?
She, who feels that urge to ask,
But every ‘magined scene evaporates because at last…
She knows a thing that needs no validation,
Her heart and head align for once in pure determination,
And in every situation,
Her conclusions flow the same,
Like the ocean from the river from the highest snows from whence it came,
Desire o’re the years and years
Shaped through all the tears, the tears,
They form a being needless of a voice to tame the proof
That’s found,
In every tingling nerve and heartbeat dancing to the truth
Around,
A fire lit within,
She won’t believe it anymore
That what drives her is a sin.
The sin of resolution,
The futility of absolution,
Oh, so heavy lies the crown
Upon a cool prevailing head,
No more in need of sought or proffered
Whispers of the ones who led
Her
Much too often to the stagnant pool of false reflection,
Softening the empty burn of grudging genuflection,
At the base of some familiar altar,
Asking far too much,
A sacrifice of every smile,
Every notion,
Every touch,
Of every single fiber weaving who she’s born to be,
Fraying all the threads,
Blurring all the lines,
Convincing her she cannot see
The Self that’s in her eyes,
Prompting her to ask
~ Like a fool, like a child ~
Which parts of her are good to keep,
And which are remnants of the wild,
Ancient,
Gorgeous,
Magic,
Sane illogic,
Pieces of her soul,
Mold them,
Shape them,
To this thing called reason…
Expectation…
White picket fence of civilization.
Does it make her a good woman to conform to this?
I guess that depends on the meaning of “good”,
And whether she gives a $h1+,
She asks now only as a curiosity,
Offering her story, but never an apology,
And truthfully,
What she came to see,
Is an answer that,
From the mouth of another,
Placates like that from a brother,
Or a mother,
But that answer heeded from deep within,
In all its frightening truth,
Relentless and unabashed,
Yes, that answer heeded from deep within
Is the one that caused HER life to begin.
I. The Request
She spoke, "bring me the sunset in a cup
that overflows with it's red warmth eternal.
Rail against supposed fate. Love speak up,
you are not the last one standing. Colonel
of starry skies are you instead? Step up
love. Ignite my lone heart with the nocturnal.
For sorrow croons as love begs. So do you try
to persuade me not to run but to fly?"
II. His smile faltered and he said,
"You speak of devotion, a test to prove.
And you feign a solid stance. You ask of me
to show a love I may not possess. Move
my faltering heart instead. Make this soul see!
So flighty little one. Why can't you soothe
another such as you? Can't you fly for me?
It takes two hearts to make a lovers spark
The sun in the sky and the stars in the dark!"
III. A glare and sigh she answered...
She whispered a chest of childhood dreams
with brevity. "I have found dreams are paltry.
False passions. False hopes. Trying proved it seems
fruitless in this volatile world. Retreat you see
was my only choice, lest my heart break. Seams
split wide. Thus I built towers of ivory.
Clinging to nectar thoughts, honeyed reminders
of happiness. You are the first finder."
IV. Rapt, he asked,
"And what have I found? You know my words
well, and though I expect no favor, can you
love me? Depart from sorrow little bird.
Don't weep within a culture of solitude.
Not every man is abrasive. Obserd
to think no noble men walk. Gentle heart, true
am I to each word. Feathered wishes for your
tempest kisses. Come and open love's door."
V. Solemnly she looks at him,
"I look now, kisses of emerald light
those eyes. I feel now the spoken verity!
I may betray my acrid thoughts this night
and choose to take the proffered hand. Clarity
is a rarity, so is a gallant knight!
Pacify my heart once more, though not deserved,
Indignation somehow left love preserved."
VI. He smiles, he answers,
"Love, have I not told you, I have been here
waiting. My patience is my eternal proof.
No cup of warmth or a brew of stars dear,
If my love be enough, then it's time for truth.
Love, take my hand and come away, no fear,
Or I turn away and remain aloof."
Change was imminent, so she gave him her hand.
His sign of her proof of love, no demands.
Form:
Bonanza of shamrocks will soon blanket Green Acres...
where Lassie free to run across petco junction
All across the webbed
wide esse Scott's landed wold
emerald green Trifolium
carpets harbor untold
burrows of tiny Leprechauns clover
(leaf) ways grant trifold
wishes if captured might
divulge pot of gold
at rainbow's end, and e'en mend
yar shoes, whence re: souled,
thence tread softly beneath subthreshold
of audibility, cuz unseen universe
hapts tubby microscopically rolled
with subterranean inhabited by Lilliputian
mischievous impish beings
(about bajillion holed
up could fill the Taj Mahal) even donned with
heavy coat protecting them
(usually men) against cold
yet frolic with reel delight jiggling
with inborn instinct exhibit twofold
talent to dance with modesty
downplaying (while fiddling)
analogous to some roof fiend
averse tubby extolled,
nonetheless, their popular
doth soar, and grievously scold
persistent myth anchored with toehold,
and thus do not indulge
pruriently with pixies considerably dulled,
since libido practically nonexistent told
me (under oath of
confidentiality), one Grunwald
trusted yours truly, the secrete
will not leak out,
nor spread like slime mold,
this descendant of Lemuel Gulliver
who schleps across the webbed wide wold.
Yours truly (an average
height and weight size ways)
nondescript grown
male munching kin
stands a little less than threefold
larger than full grown homunculi.
Rumor monger kickstarter
Matthew Scott Harris
posits nontrue tidbit
regarding rock 'n' roll star
who (name unmentioned)
became the most influential
musicians across the universe,
with estimated record sales
of around 600 million
as of two thousand twenty blank.
Imp possible mission
to see non elfish (pressed) lee
160 years after his Irish ancestor
crossed the Atlantic
curling his left lip,
whereby convalescing, peep ping auld
timers cavorting wax nostalgic with
itty bitty whippersnappers,
averse to any outliers,
whether hirsute or bald
an honest to goodness painstaking effort
initially stymied friendship proffered, a cold
reception eventually bedecked
hall of the mountain king
(while sharing diet of worms)
deep under verdantly
festooned knolls of Eire land.
Old and ugly and well married is the visage
that I carry, and yet, there is another world
that keeps opening up its magic door.
It sends me notes and emissaries
that I could be,
I should be much more than what I am.
The first message, that I was aware of
came to me in the high desert where
I sat Walden-like by a pool trying to
get back to the source, I'm told, is
within us all.
Suddenly I saw a flurry
a mile across the valley floor,
a point took flight and became
a mystic preying mantis
that picked my shoulder as a perch.
Mid day church bells rang
at that moment and I watched
the sound reverberate
shaking bushes and trees
down the valley, scattering
birds and small animals.
Yet the mantis on my shoulder
calmly sat, cocked its head,
and in its eyes there was a question.
I replied to the mantis' query that
"I was old and ugly and well married and
I am simply not quite ready,
but keep the offer open and
I will be ready soon."
After a month of worrying that
perhaps I had gone too far,
in refusing to go through an open door,
I summoned it again.
Right there in my backyard I heard
a flurry and found a grasshopper perched
where you had perched before.
The question in its eyes left no doubt
it again was you.
I replied that I just wanted to make sure
that the offer you had proffered still
was mine to take.
You flew away as I explained that
"I was old and ugly and well married and
simply still not quite ready but keep the offer open,
and I'll be ready soon."
Years went by and I forgot the magic,
indeed, avoided magic.
I went to a marriage yesterday,
I sat alone, away from the others,
on a bridge, by a pond,
amongst tall pines and redwoods.
I thought again of the mystic mantis.
Suddenly you were there.
You came out of a crowd of happy guests
and crossed into my solitary space.
You touched my shoulder and my hand
and kept it there for the fastest hour.
We talked about nature and
books we had both read,
the giant puppets you made,
and about things
I'd never tell a stranger.
I looked into your eyes
and realized
that we had met at least
twice before and saw the familiar offer.
In my mind I pleaded for more time because
I am old and ugly and well married,
but please, please keep the offer open
because I'll be ready soon.
Suddenly you were gone.
I'm kind of taken by Jeremy Corbyn, the man and his success,
And believe that for the leadership role he may be able to dress;
I think what’s going unsaid is that he’s kind of in a way funny,
Minutely, not gloomy like Brown or Miliband, but kind of somewhat sunny.
He’s a breath of fresh air on the economy and education,
‘Cos he’ll tax the rich more and increase the tax of corporation,
He’ll set up a National Education Service for any and for all,
And restrict free schools so that upon liberality they will call.
Tax evasion will be dealt with, so Amazon and Starbucks can cower,
And housing rents will be controlled, to let the hard-worker flower;
Immigration will not be dismissed, and welfare reform will be opposed,
And Trident will not be renewed, as political solutions will be supposed.
The renationalisation of energy giants will stop high electricity bills,
And Europe will centre in British politics and system safety drills;
The NHS will not be privatised but with social care it will be warm,
And women’s workplace rights will be proffered in a massive, great big swarm.
He'll have a Minister for the Arts, to trophy art, music, literature and poetry,
He opposed the Iraq war, and will work with Russia at diplomacy;
He’ll fight for socialism and its beliefs, but in a modern way, considered,
And he’ll represent normal people, because he comes from Salford.
However, I don't like John MacDonnell, the Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer,
Who should be more for the centrist view and a conscientious people reader;
His right-hand man should be someone who gives the opinion of the party’s right,
To offset Labour Leader Mr Corbyn and his radical, militant, socialistic fight.
But all the best to you, Jeremy, I hope things go your way,
And you stabilise the country with the left-wing policies of the day;
Although your shadow cabinet should be more representative in its views,
I hope that the economy rewards you for your heartfelt unionist dues.
You can read some of Jeremy Corbyn's poetry at http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/politics/Jeremy_Corbyn/11844716/Published-at-last-the-poems-of-Jeremy-Corbyn.html
Quail not at Death’s door if you wrought no wilful harm
Quail not at Death’s door if you wrought no wilful harm
Should turning back in vengeance be the Dead Man’s qualm
Though even as the end nears the comfort of proffered pardon
Will in no way replace the sacrifices to expunge the burden
Sure everyone wreaks harm by chance or through ignorance
During those moments when control depends on circumstance
The way the chips fall is not a matter for individual call
Is not that the way centillions of quarks knock into it all
Do the Dead turn back to set right their splintered houses
Or do the worlds keep spinning guided by original causes
Tell not the man whose wits desert him what’s really wrong
The punishment the Dead incur is a judgement well foregone
He who turns self-righteously around to avenge or to meddle
To set right the world’s injustices in the Manichean treadle
Might earn himself a life’s sentence to roam all over again
Dead people walking numb through friendless terrain
All they may be able to do is to warn you of a fiddle
Of some danger sapping your strength the key to a riddle
Even if friends and relatives who betrayed your confidence
Will cling to spurious justifications ever through repentance
Think not of the lives milling lost in the neck of your clouds
Is there no end to ramifications vilifications in livelihoods
Do the Dead take along with them the history of their lives
And in which distant sibling planet are they stored in archives
If only it were as easy as to look up and wish them all away
What good can this earth be with us all dead in it anyway
Bickering for pieces of molten land pieces of names in decay
Metals and rock on fire hurtling down minuscule Milky Way
What need has the Maker for such a vast and roving Empire
Even children give up playing with trains and coaches on fire
Do the Dead renew passports before entering galactic spaces
Or do they coddle up in comfort in inalienable birth-places
Wouldn’t our world be some thing else but for this baffling secret
The foregone fate of earth-born gods if it weren’t for this regret.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014